The Blur Between Midnight & Morning

I remember the sound of his call--1AM, maybe just after. I was outside the club, barefoot for some reason, holding my heels like some half-drunk cliché. The sidewalk was warm beneath my feet, still buzzing from the day's heat. The city lights blurred into color trails behind the smeared glass of a taxi window. I told him I'd lost the girls. That I was on my way home.

That part was true.

But something happened in between.

The driver asked if I was sure about the address, and I hesitated. I remember that. The pause. The way my thighs clenched when he said the name of our street. The heat between my legs--not from him--but from something unspoken. Something unfinished. A need I hadn't fully acknowledged until that exact moment.

I didn't go straight home.

I wish I could say I remember everything. But I don't. Only flashes.

A stranger's laugh. A hallway mirror. My reflection looking back at me with parted lips and wine-smeared lipstick, head tilted like she didn't recognize herself either. The thump of music still playing faintly in my bones. And hands--not my husband's--exploring me like a secret. A mouth that didn't ask for permission. Fingers that knew how to open me without fumbling. Maybe I said stop. Maybe I whispered don't. Maybe I meant neither. Or both.

I remember the taste of liquor on someone else's tongue. The pressure of a wall against my back. My dress pushed up. My body giving in to something it should've fought harder. But didn't.

I came home just before 4.

I remember standing outside the door, barefoot again, keys fumbling in my hand. My thighs were sticky. My breath uneven. I could still feel him--whoever he was--between my legs. A whisper of guilt lingered, dulled by alcohol and something darker I didn't want to name. Something that felt too close to satisfaction.

He was asleep when I opened the door. Or maybe not quite. I heard the shift of the sheets. The slow, deliberate breath of someone pretending. The creak of the stairs behind me faded as I climbed into bed. The room was dark, but I could feel him waiting--tense and half-awake beneath the covers. I didn't speak.

My hand found him first. Hard already. Maybe from a dream. Maybe from the scent of another man still clinging to my skin. My panties were soaked, and when his fingers reached them, I felt his hesitation. A pause. Just long enough for me to wonder if he knew. Or felt it. Or smelled it.

I kissed him harder than usual. Desperate. Drunk. A little cruel. My bra came off somewhere between the sheets and shame. I pressed myself against him like I needed to erase the hours between the call and now. But there was no erasing.

Only rewriting.

He slid inside me with urgency--more curious than usual. His hips snapped faster. His breath shorter. I felt how he gripped my waist tighter, how his rhythm shifted when I moaned too easily, too soon. And I wondered--did he notice how wet I already was? How loose I felt? Did something in him sense it, even if he didn't want to ask?

Maybe I don't remember everything.

But I remember wanting to be touched. To be wanted. To feel something reckless. And as he fucked me, something primal bloomed between us. Maybe he knew. Maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe--just maybe--he imagined reclaiming me from someone else.

Because that's what it felt like.

Like he was taking me back.

When he came, he buried himself deep, almost possessive. And I swear, in the seconds that followed, I could feel it--his cum mixing with what was left of the night. Of someone else. Of me. It felt like a collision. Like a silent confrontation. Like something sacred being undone.

I woke alone the next morning. Head pounding. Sheets damp. My legs a little sore. He was already up. The house was quiet except for the steady sound of the shower running upstairs. No questions. No accusations. Just the kind of silence that lets guilt fester in corners you can't scrub clean.

That night never fully left us.

It lingers. Between our kisses. In the way he sometimes looks at me like he's still wondering. I catch him watching me after sex, eyes studying me like he's trying to read something written across my skin. Like he's searching for traces--of someone else. Of something else. Sometimes I ache to confess. Other times, I ache because I never will.

Maybe I kissed someone.

Maybe I let him fuck me.

Maybe I stopped it just before.

Or maybe I didn't.

But when I got home, I gave my husband a part of me that still tasted like someone else.

And he took it--hungrily.